


Sunbeam

by winwinism



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Universe, Established Relationship, M/M, Morning Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Time Skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28767174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winwinism/pseuds/winwinism
Summary: Atsumu and Kiyoomi do it in their new apartment.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 15
Kudos: 406





	Sunbeam

Atsumu wakes up with a sunbeam across his face and pulsating heat between his thighs. In his arms slumbers human furnace Sakusa Kiyoomi, not a scrap of clothing on him and his skin tacky with a night’s worth of sweat. Their bed smells faintly of sex. _Their_ bed. Atsumu closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, filling his belly with the feeling. He’d get up, close the curtains so he can get back to sleep, but he doesn’t want to wake Kiyoomi. No, more selfishly--he doesn’t want to leave this bed for a second. 

He peels open one eye and peers at Kiyoomi. His hair, ordinarily gelled and combed into perfect waves, splays across the pillow in glossy disarray. Love bites litter the pale curve of his neck and muscular upper back. With Atsumu’s arm looped around his middle, Kiyoomi curls in on himself, spine curving so that their mismatched heights fit together like pieces of a puzzle. Kiyoomi likes being the little spoon. He won’t admit it, but the important thing is that Atsumu knows he does. Atsumu knows a whole lot of these little things by now. He fears he’ll never learn the complete catalogue, but hell if he won’t die trying.

Atsumu lifts his head off the pillow and brushes aside the locks of hair on Kiyoomi’s neck, revealing smooth skin and more evidence of the last night’s activities. Eyes shut, he noses against it and presses a lingering kiss to his nape. Atsumu’s breathing deepens. His cock stiffens as the seconds pass, nudging into the cushiony undersides of Kiyoomi’s thighs. The arm around Kiyoomi’s middle strokes his waist lovingly, circling the thumb where he knows Kiyoomi is ticklish. Part of Atsumu wants nothing more than to abandon pretext and rut against him just like this, use Kiyoomi’s sleep-soft, animal body to chase a release already rearing its head beneath his skin. But he won’t. Another part of him slowly awakens. 

He shifts up onto his elbow and peers over Kiyoomi’s sleeping form. He runs his fingers feather-light up Kiyoomi’s ribs and neck, finally meeting his jaw and cradling it gently, tilting him slightly so that Atsumu’s lips meet his pulse. Atsumu kisses the sensitive area and the purple-red bruise beside it, and it’s only then that Kiyoomi emits a groan from deep in his throat. Atsumu’s heart flutters. 

“What are you doing,” Kiyoomi mumbles without opening his eyes, hardly parting his lips. Sleep throws a layer of gravel over his velvety voice. The lips that Atsumu loves so much are cracked and swollen, like they’ve gone through battle. Last night, Kiyoomi sucked him off in the kitchen. There wasn’t any time to get to the bedroom, he said. He had to do it. 

“Saying good morning,” Atsumu hums against Kiyoomi’s jaw, hoping it tickles. “Rise ‘n’ shine, sweetheart.” 

“Like hell,” Kiyoomi grumbles. Atsumu huffs a laugh, but Kiyoomi goes on: “Not morning anymore, either.” 

“Hm?”

“Window faces west.” 

Atsumu glances at the window in question, where the part in the curtains reveals a narrow slice of blue, cloudless sky and the city below. “Fuck, you’re right.” 

“Duh,” Kiyoomi says sleepily, shifting as he nestles into a more comfortable position. His lashes flutter, and his lips part on a yawn. 

“Think we can still make it to practice?”

“No.” It’s a Sunday. They don’t have practice on Sundays. 

Thinking on it, Atsumu swears he might’ve glimpsed the red glow of the sunrise when they last did it; but he was too far gone--too lost in Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi’s eyes, the feel of his body--for the implication of how much time had passed to register. Thighs shaking like he’d played five sets, Kiyoomi whimpered nonstop as he fucked himself on Atsumu’s aching cock and wrenched a last orgasm out of them both. His eyes watered, and a few stray tears tracked down his cheeks; he wiped them away with hands balled into furious fists. “Tsumu, Tsumu,” he cried out again and again, and when he came he fisted his hands in his sweaty hair and sobbed like it was being torn out of him. Unconsciously, Atsumu makes a low noise, like a growl. 

“What?” Kiyoomi says, still affecting sleep. Atsumu’s lips curve. He abandons Kiyooni’s jaw and lets his hand drift lower, exploring the expanse of his body beneath the sheets, every rigid muscle and the softness between. Atsumu throbs with each familiar revelation. There’s no way Kiyoomi hasn’t noticed his dick. 

“You awake yet?” Atsumu purrs into Kiyoomi’s ear. He flicks a thumb over Kiyoomi’s nipple. Barely enough to be perceptible, Kiyoomi stiffens. 

“I’m annoyed,” he says. 

“Bit early to be annoyed,” Atsumu remarks, still unconvinced they could’ve slept past noon. “Need somethin’ to get you _relaxed_ ,” he says, drawing out the syllables; “get you _all_ nice ‘n’ ready to face the day.” 

He tweaks Kiyoomi’s nipple and rubs the pad of his thumb over it roughly. Not the stuff of a relaxation exercise, but it’s something. He watches Kiyoomi’s ears, waiting for them to redden. 

“And what is that,” Kiyoomi asks in a quiet, flat voice. 

“Making love, baby,” and Atsumu only cracks up _after_ he says it, which is progress.

“Jesus Christ,” Kiyoomi says, flattening a hand over his eyes. “Must you call it that?” 

“Yeah,” Atsumu croons, tilting Kiyoomi’s jaw up to capture his lips in a kiss. He makes a startled hum, but Atsumu watches beneath deceptively lowered lids, delighted, as Kiyoomi’s eyes close, tension bleeding out of him with a sigh. He opens up without hesitation, morning breath be damned. When they first started dating, Kiyoomi wouldn’t let Atsumu tongue-kiss him without rinsing out his mouth first. How far he’s come. 

Atsumu admits only privately that he gets a thrill out of it, persuading Kiyoomi to be with him like this--like he’s coaxed this noble, otherworldly being into a netherworld of unclean desires, or tempted an ascetic into a Dionysian revel. Not that Kiyoomi has ever been an ascetic. He just seemed that way--above-it-all, untouchable--back when Atsumu was crushing. 

Atsumu strokes the inside of Kiyoomi’s thigh as they kiss, imagining the bruises that must’ve blossomed here, too. Last night, Atsumu blew him before they went all the way. They always like it like that; it helps Kiyoomi relax, and he’s got a short enough refractory period--enough stamina, too--to cum again when Atsumu’s inside. Atsumu had him dripping before he even touched his cock, lavishing attention on Kiyoomi’s sensitive inner thighs and looking up at him periodically with the hungry, awe-struck eyes he knows Kiyoomi likes. Atsumu swears he could make Kiyoomi cum by looking at him the right way, maybe murmuring a few sweet words. He likes that, being desired. It’s the hottest thing Atsumu can do for him, for all that Kiyoomi presents as cold and aloof, and praise especially renders him immobile. 

“You still ready for me?” Atsumu asks against his lips. He splays his hand over Kiyoomi’s tummy, holding him still, refusing to touch his cock. Denied another kiss by a turn of Atsumu’s head, Kiyoomi lets his head flop onto the pillow. His lips purse, but his chest rises and falls deeply, and his ears now betray a flush. Atsumu takes it all in, ravenous. Like he’s woken up hungry after the night of a feast; when it comes to this, it’s impossible that he could be sated for long. 

Hand returning to Kiyoomi’s hip, Atsumu presses him forward, belly-down into the bed; Kiyoomi throws out an elbow to prop himself up, looking over his shoulder with curious, lidded eyes. When Atsumu rubs the base of his spine, he shivers on cue, hips dipping as if grinding his cock into the mattress. Atsumu wonders if he’s hard yet. Doesn’t matter, not really; Kiyoomi will let him do it either way. Sometimes, Kiyoomi puts on the appearance of putting up with it--like he’d ever just lie back and think of London when they’re together--until Atsumu says some bullshit that gets him hot, or fucks into him just right; and then Kiyoomi melts, his whole ice queen roleplay falling apart as he gasps and moans Atsumu’s name like an idiot. Atsumu isn’t sure if it’s pride or some strange fetish that Kiyoomi won’t tell him about. Doesn’t matter much, either. As much as anything, Atsumu loves making him break. 

“You are,” Atsumu says, fighting a smirk. He traces the curve of Kiyoomi’s tight ass, and Kiyoomi flinches--the skin must be stained red and raw after last night’s abuse: five rounds and Atsumu hitting him open-handed, bent over their new couch, until he came untouched. “I know that _come fuck me_ look you’ve got on.” 

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, calling Atsumu’s bullshit even as his flush deepens. “Tired,” he complains, and _god_ , is that a pout? They haven’t even done anything, and Atsumu’s dick feels like it might explode. 

“All you gotta do is lie there and take it, babe.” Atsumu pries Kiyoomi’s thighs apart and touches two fingers to his rim. Kiyoomi makes a noise of complaint; Atsumu’s fingers must be cold. He murmurs a quiet apology and kisses Kiyoomi’s shoulder as he presses into the blazing heat inside. He’s still loose, enough that two fingers go in easy. Kiyoomi wriggles, agitated by the intrusion, but not rejecting it. His thighs slip further apart, ass lifting off the mattress. 

Struck by a sudden, gut-wrenching desire to see him, Atsumu pulls his fingers out and shrugs off their sheets, kicking them down the bed. The cool air of the apartment shocks his skin, making his erection tingle, but he burns from within. The same stubborn slice of sun cuts across Kiyoomi’s pale, mole-speckled back. Atsumu drinks in the lewd spread of his thighs, the flushed skin of his ass, and desire all but crowds out his breath. 

Kiyoomi humphs, letting his head fall back onto the pillow and casting his gaze out west. “Do it, then,” he says. 

“Bossy.” Sitting up, he straddles Kiyoomi’s thigh and spits on the hand he used to finger Kiyoomi’s ass. “You don’t need to pee or anything, do you?”

“No. Shut up.” 

Atsumu huffs a short, tight laugh. He wraps his saliva-wet palm around his cock and groans embarrassingly loud. He wonders if Kiyoomi rubbed his ass on him when Atsumu was asleep, teasing him for hours so that he’d be on edge when he awoke. “Look,” he says; and when Kiyoomi doesn’t respond, he gives Kiyoomi’s left cheek a playful smack. Kiyoomi jolts in surprise and reluctantly twists, going up on his forearms as he peers over his shoulder. “All this is for you, baby.” Kiyoomi doesn’t quite look at him, not directly, but the delicate flush to his cheekbones makes Atsumu’s blood pump hot with victory. “You want it?” On cue, Kiyoomi turns around, hiding his blush in the pillow. Atsumu snorts, amused even as his heart throbs and his cock aches. _This is the first day of the rest of your life_ , Atsumu thinks to himself, and then: _Holy shit, I love being alive_. “S’alright, sweetheart, I won’t make you beg.” 

“As if,” Kiyoomi mutters, a touch of amusement in his voice. He’s right; Kiyoomi’s too proud to beg. Luckily for them both, Atsumu isn’t--or they’d never have started dating in the first place. 

His cock bubbles precum as he drags the tip up the soft cleft of Kiyoomi’s ass. “Lift your ass up for me, honey.” Kiyoomi used to mock Atsumu’s love of pet names, but the way he’d blush and stutter belied his words. Now he only blushes. Kiyoomi shifts up the bed as he pushes his knees forward, presenting himself like a plated meal and boy, is Atsumu hungry. Later, maybe he’ll make them pancakes. He spreads Kiyoomi with a thumb and grips the base of his dick as he rubs it right over Kiyoomi’s hole, feeling the way he twitches like a shy animal, anticipating it. “Shh, relax,” he says, even though Kiyoomi hasn’t said a word, and presses inside. 

Kiyoomi’s the tightest thing Atsumu’s ever fucked, clamping down on him like he wants to bite Atsumu’s dick off; but now, loosened up after a night of delirious marathon sex, entering him is easy, as natural as anything. The heat sears his cock and punches a sigh out of him, and he drops forward, planting a fist on the bed to hold himself up. They’ll have to change the sheets again, after this. Day one of doing laundry for two. Kiyoomi shakes and his fingers curl into the pillow and his shoulders draw together until Atsumu bends enough to kiss them, lips moving from one mole to another like connect the dots. Bottoming out plucks from Kiyoomi’s throat a short, nasal whine, and it makes Atsumu a little crazy, to be honest. 

He pulls out halfway and thrusts back in, slow and deep, marvelling at how easy it is--and now that he’s not dying his way through a dry orgasm, physically pleasant. “Gonna give you my dick every day of the week now, how’d you like that?”

“N-not,” comes Kiyoomi’s strained voice, “before a match.”

“Omi, babe, the mood.” Though Atsumu doesn’t mind if Kiyoomi brings up work in bed--on the court is where Atsumu fell in love with him, where Kiyoomi’s bestiel power is nearest the surface. He’s sexy anywhere, wearing anything, but on the court he’s a god. “Want you like this all the fucking time, you know that?” 

Atsumu snaps his hips, and Kiyoomi moans aloud. His ass must be sensitive, but he doesn’t complain. Might like it, for all Atsumu knows. His hips jerk into the bed with every thrust, allowing his cock to rub into the sheets, getting them wet with his precum--probably. “Should I?” Kiyoomi quavers, and it takes Atsumu’s brain a second to register it as a reply. 

“Yeah,” he says, grunting it out; “yeah, fuck it. I’d fuck you on center court with everyone watching, you get me so hot. When we’re winning--” Kiyoomi clenches around him--an unconscious reaction, perhaps--and his mind goes blank. 

“What?” Kiyoomi says. He’s twisting around, giving Atsumu a show of his glazed, heavy-lidded eyes and the flushed sheen to his profile. 

“I dunno,” he says honestly, and remembers a moment later. “Right--it turns me on a little, you know?”

Kiyoomi hums, like he _knows_ , but it’s cut off by a gasp when Atsumu, inspired, switches his angle enough to rub past Kiyoomi’s prostate, now swollen and needy. Kiyoomi physically convulses, as if trying to crawl away from the sensation, but Atsumu won’t let him. He needs him consumed by pleasure--dying because of it, because of Atsumu. He grasps Kiyoomi’s sharp hipbone in his right hand and holds him in place, aiming with the concentration of a serve drill. When Atsumu pulls out to spit on his cock, Kiyoomi’s head flops sideways, mouth open and sucking in desperate breaths. Stray locks of hair are stuck to his forehead.

“You turn me on more, obviously,” Atsumu adds. 

“Shut,” Kiyoomi slurs, drawing out the _sh_ sound. 

“Nope,” Atsumu says cheerfully. He presses himself off the bed, sitting upright and surveying his lover like a conquerer, the once-uncharted lands of Kiyoomi’s virile body now his, his alone. “Know you like it, baby. You love it. Bet your cock’s all wet.” Atsumu senses Kiyoomi stiffen, breath shuddering out of him as Atsumu teases over his hole, fluttering like it just wants to suck him in. Grinning, he bottoms out in one swift thrust. “Want you to cum on my dick, you hear me?” Kiyoomi tightens around him like a vise, squeezing every thought from his mind except the rhythmic _slap_ of his hips against Kiyoomi’s ass. The words that spill from Atsumu’s lips are pure reflex. “Love you like this. Love you like anything, but god, Omi. Gonna fuck you on every surface of this place, we’re never fucking getting back our deposit--”

The sudden arrival of an idea stops him short, and he pulls out, resisting Kiyoomi’s mopey little whine. Kiyoomi’s wide, dark eyes follow him as he flops back onto his side of the bed and pushes at Kiyoomi’s shoulder, turning him onto his side. 

“Hey.” Their faces suddenly inches apart, Atsumu’s stomach flips. He remembers how he lusted after every icy glare he’d won from Kiyoomi in their early days as teammates, how he’d draw out every dismissive look into an elaborate humiliation fantasy. Even like this, face open and flushed with lust, Kiyoomi’s regal features intimidate--he’s the kind of beauty that shocks you when you’re not expecting it. “Gorgeous,” he says, honesty easing the tightness in his throat, and Kiyoomi’s Adam’s apple bobs. He caresses Kiyoomi’s backside and pulls at his thigh, bending his knee over Atsumu’s hip. 

Without averting his eyes from Kiyoomi’s, Atsumu guides his erection between Kiyoomi’s legs. Kisses him when he meets Kiyoomi’s entrance, swallows Kiyoomi’s moan as he thrusts inside. Like this, he can’t go as deep. He needs lube, but it’s too far, and the bed--Kiyoomi’s body--is too warm, to inviting to abandon for even a second. He fucks in lazily as he sucks on Kiyoomi’s lower lip, rocking the bed in a slow rhythm. With two guys of their size, they might break the damn thing someday. Kiyoomi’s erection--curved and blushing, all messy after rutting into the bed--bounces against his abs, painting them with precum. He smiles into the kiss and wraps a hand around Kiyoomi’s cock so suddenly that he gasps. 

“You close, baby?” he says. Kiyoomi squeezes his eyes shut and nods twice in short jerks of the head. “Yeah? Lemme see it. You’re so pretty when you cum, babe, ‘s when you’re the prettiest.” Atsumu jerks him off in time with his thrusts, not sure if he aches more for his own release or Kiyoomi’s. He needs to see it. He genius, having them do it like this; he keeps his eyes rapt on Kiyoomi’s face, scouring every detail. The way his brows furrow and his mouth drops open, helpless, his sighs rising in pitch. 

“Cumming,” Kiyoomi rushes out, and his eyes fly open as one of his hands shoots out to grip Atsumu’s shoulder, kneading into the muscle there like he’s holding on for dear life. Atsumu murmurs nonsense as he fucks him through it, slow and thorough. “Tsumu,” Kiyoomi whines, fingers digging into Atsumu’s skin; “Tsumu, Tsumu.” He spills over Atsumu’s fist with a gasp, spine going rigid and hole pulling tight for an agonized moment before the holy ghost rushes out of him and, now sated, his body goes limp, like a ragdoll. Atsumu pulls out and wraps his semen-covered fist around his dick. It jumps in his hand, the skin so tight and oversensitive that he’ll wonder later, momentarily, if he might’ve overdone it, if such a thing were possible. 

He nearly chokes when he feels Kiyoomi’s hand join his, those long, flexible fingers threading the space between each of Atsumu’s knuckles. “Lemme,” Kiyoomi manages in a raw voice. 

“Yeah, fuck. You--you got me.” It won’t take long. Kiyoomi stares into him unblinkingly, snapping his wrist around the tip expertly--fuck, like he gets _paid_ for this shit--and Atsumu’s orgasm rockets out of him, splattering his own chest and the sheets. His chest heaves. 

Before he’s even caught his breath, he finds himself kissing Kiyoomi, unable to help himself--the red, spit-slick look of them is too much, too irresistible. He presses short, open-mouthed, off-center kisses to those lips, panting. Slowly, his heartbeat settles; and for a moment, or a few minutes or hours--Atsumu can’t be sure--they lie like that, bodies curved into each other. Like an afterthought, Kiyoomi withdraws his splayed thigh and rolls onto his back.

“Should change the sheets,” Kiyoomi muses into the open air. The room is cold, and his nipples, Atsumu notices--each of them a flat brown--are delightfully perky. Atsumu reaches out to flick one of them, just hard enough to perturb, and Kiyoomi’s confused glare is immediate. 

“Fuck, Omi, I love you.” The glare melts into something bemused, then shy; Kiyoomi returns his gaze to the ceiling. “Did I say that already? I’m gonna say it again. All day long, baby, if I have to.”

“You don’t have to,” Kiyoomi mutters. 

“Oh, did I say it?”

Kiyoomi shoots him a look with one eyebrow cocked, as if to say, _you don’t remember?_ “Because I know,” he says--and quickly purses his lips. 

“Oh,” Atsumu says. “Right.” There must be something in his throat. He coughs. “You don’t have to, either,” he adds. 

“Really,” Kiyoomi says tonelessly.

“Because _I_ know you do,” he teases, edging closer so that he can poke Kiyoomi in one stubborn cheek. “Or you wouldn’t have moved in with me.”

“It’s convenient. Easier to make rent this way.” 

Atsumu kisses his ear, smug. “One day, I’ll make you say it.” Kiyoomi hums, showing he’s listening even as he affects being aloof. “Not as a sex thing, because I told you to. For real. Because you just love me that much.” 

There’s a quiet moment, in which Kiyoomi’s expression is still and contemplative, and it makes Atsumu shiver. “Okay,” he decides. “Then, I love you.” Outside, the wind whistles, and a cloud momentarily passes over the sun.

“Alright,” Atsumu says. “Think you could go for some pancakes?”

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to hit me up on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/winwinism)! I have recently decided to be more active on there so uhhh yeah.


End file.
